


House Guest Pt. 1

by Hipporiot



Series: A Matter Of Time [5]
Category: The Flash (TV 2014)
Genre: Domestic Fluff, M/M, Sleepovers, coldflash - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-04
Updated: 2018-07-04
Packaged: 2019-06-01 18:41:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,028
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15149444
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hipporiot/pseuds/Hipporiot
Summary: In this thrilling chapter, we begin with Barry Allen in a love, work, home life maelstrom and... He's not handling it well. Choosing instead to ignore life's subtle cues to get his shit together and instead run in anxious super-speed circles.Life has chosen to intervene in the vehicle of Leonard Snart with an overnight-bag.Life's a dick.





	House Guest Pt. 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [WeThree](https://archiveofourown.org/users/WeThree/gifts).



> This took FAR too long. ...And is continuing to, so I decided to make an executive decision and cut the chapter in half. 
> 
> Again, for my poor lovely and ever so patient WeThree.

Barry's life is a mess.

Which is an understatement for what his bedroom could be described as.

But he can't seem to do anything about it, or anything in general lately, because taking deliberate, mature action is - for lack of a more eloquent word - hard. Doing _things_ or rather a very specific, hauntingly pleasant _thing_ is what has made his life somehow a bigger mess than it was before - before tenderly kissing Leonard Snart in front of his socially just plan of city domination.

God, he needs to vacuum.

And, that wouldn't require any thought or reminder of what he's done, or allowed to happen, so. It's not a long journey to the linen closet in the hall, but he still flashes out and back in, anything to deprive himself of space for thought. 

He gets the ancient vacuum plugged in and ready to go amid the mess of assorted ashes from singed clothes, and the littered paperwork he's been avoiding from the big bust he gave the CCPD on an alarming amount of Snart's safe houses. All of which adds good dramatic flair for every time he flashes in and out of conversations about his love life, or work, or anything that requires more than minimal conscious thought.

Which is ninety-percent of his life that he's been avoiding for almost a month.

But it's, again, hard not to let his mind wander, night-time domestic chatter through the house and it's thin walls like white noise to his scattered thoughts.

He's been working on letting go of blame, especially since he blames himself so often. He kissed Snart, he made a mistake, it happens, and this one didn't end in major property or emotional damages - well, just slight emotional damages. He liked it, a lot, he can't help that, but it doesn't mean he's proud of it. But the one thing he can't excuse to adrenaline or possible stroke-like symptoms is-

He really, _really_ wants to do it again.

The sharp sound of the neighbourhood racoon scratching at the siding outside his window breaks through the night noise and shakes him out of the daze. He packs away the cozy little recollection of the kiss in exchange for struggling with the vacuum attachments, cursing the old bent plastic as he sits cross-legged on the floor and fiddles with it.

He knows he's avoiding the whole situation and the unknown consequences, but things were just starting to feel normal, and then the kiss happened, and Snart's little community project plans, and having to stop Snart from doing the right thing just for using the wrong means. And how, _right_ the kiss, the whole thing felt, even though it makes absolutely no sense, and now- 

Now the stalker racoon is actually fiddling with his window's lock.

"I swear, Mr. Rogers, if you come in here again-" he mutters, getting up to shoo the freaky racoon off his windowsill, or possibly get Joe in here to arrest the little guy for harassment. Cisco _did_ make little meta-cuffs.

He turns, expecting to see a very smart, and very aggravating thief opening his window, but this is where expectation gets overshot by reality, quite a lot, actually.

Leonard Snart, ducking through his window, smirking. 

“Expecting a different neighbour?”

"...What are you doing?" Barry blurts out, without thought or intention, or expectation of an actual answer, struggling to think at all about why Snart would be here, or what's happening, or how to move. 

Snart ignores his question in favor of dropping a packed duffel bag onto his floor and daintily slipping his combat boots through the window frame so he can fully climb inside.

Like he plans on staying.

"No, no, no-" Barry starts saying hurriedly, an overused string of words that have lost meaning before even being uttered, stumbling over the clutter to get to the window and Snart, who needs to get out before he starts making himself hot chocolate and organizing Barry's drawers - again.

But Snart still ignores Barry waving for him to leave as he takes a glance around the room, "Lucky you, you get the easiest room to sneak a boy into." Snart comments dryly.

Ok, he knew Iris would sneak out the window to _meet_ boys, but now Snart's just opened an entire avenue of thought Barry doesn't want to think about, and he isn't going to distract him like that, "It used to be Iris'." He replies, honesty on autopilot while he's busy picking up Snart's very heavy bag, holding more than just a change of clothes, probably.

"She sneak someone in for you, too?" Snart asks, eyes catching Barry's with an all too suggestive focus for someone who's already cased the valuables.

None of the guys, or girls she brought home ever seemed that appealing, but maybe it was just because they were being unfairly compared to an impossible standard, one he happened to sleep down the hall from. "No, I just didn't have people in the house." He supplies to shrug off Snart's over-interested gaze, stuffing Snart's bag back into his greedy hands, daring to bring up his troubled yet boring teenage years.

“Huh,” Snart says, sounding disappointed on Barry's young behalf, but also more interested than Barry would care for right now, seeing as he's trying to _gently_ push Snart out the window, "Prude? Closet-case?" Snart inquires conversationally, not budging from his position on the inside of the window, specifically the side Barry's trying to remove him from.

Friendless bi geek who's main hangouts were the library and Iron-Heights, more like, "None of your business." Barry replies curtly, suddenly feeling very attacked, and attempting to block Snart from getting any further into his bedroom, or life details. But mostly the room Barry is in no way ready to have anyone in, especially not Leonard Snart. 

Especially not after what happened last time they were alone.

The thought alone wouldn't make him do more than bat his lashes, usually, but being this close- 

He steps back, stumbles over the vacuum, pulling the plug - the vacuum crashes to the ground, sparks fly, luckily they just fizzle out, but considering how much time he's had to master his speedster abilities, this is just one of his natural human quirks that can't be helped.

"Barr? What's with the all the racket?" Joe calls up the stairs, only a floor away from knowing Central City’s most wanted is breaking into his son's bedroom.

"Uh, cleaning!" He calls back, glaring at Snart to leave before Barry's forced to make him.

But in the challenging silence of the glaring match, it just brings to thought the less well-known saying, 'one man's trash is another man's confusing feelings for a practicing felon’, and how much trouble he'll be in if he allows anyone to know Snart's even set foot inside his bedroom.

Snart eyes the lights being flicked on in the house beyond Barry’s door and backs out of the window, quicker than Barry thought he would, but maybe he's also not ready to do the whole formal 'meet the family' mess. 

Y’know, excluding prior kidnappings.

He doesn't need superpowers to hear Joe sigh a ‘of course he's cleaning’ under his breath downstairs, "Ok, but Caitlin's here for-" a pause as Joe confirms uncertainly, "...your bath?" he calls up.

He's ineffably grateful that Snart was out of earshot for that.

He jumps over the vacuum and cracks the door open to call down, "Ok, just a minute!” Why did Caitlin have to redeem her weekend of 'unfettered scientific observation' _this_ weekend? He scrubs his face with his free hand and restrains the urge to lightly bang his head against the door as he tries to think straight.

Caitlin calls up the stairs to interrupt his ineffective mental numbing, "I brought Cisco!"

Great. More friends to lie to.

He steals himself for a second, just long enough to reason that Snart would probably like to do the same. He gives up on that train of thought and makes his frazzled way out to the hall.

Joe’s already climbing the steps, looking tired in a very fatherly manner.

"I'm so sorry, I forgot to tell you." Barry explains, rubbing the back of his neck, feeling guilty about the unexpected visitors, but mostly one in particular that Joe doesn't know about.

Yet.

Joe puts his hands up with a soft look on his face, "It's ok, Barr, they're always welcome. Just, uh, maybe consider setting some boundaries," He says, looking back at Caitlin and Cisco ascending the stairs behind him, and at Barry's disbelieving expression he pats his shoulder and goes to walk past him, but thinks better of holding his unspoken comment, "Caitlin sniffed your shoes." He adds as a passing remark, or by the way he says it, a staunch piece of disturbing evidence that Barry should take his advice.

He can think of at least ten reasons she could've been doing that; checking for non-friction related breakdown, inspecting for environmental evidence, assessing his health through sweat odour- ok, all those reasons are already coldly scientific and more than a little creepy and bodily intimate than he'd prefer but, that's what this whole weekend is about.

Or, _was_ about.

No, Caitlin deserves better than having her geek week ruined by Snart deciding they’re in the sleepover phase of the relationship before they've even had a proper, normal - well, as normal as they can get, date. 

Like, with food that’s legally paid for, and a destination not chosen by the police scanner, and firelight that’s not from a garbage fire, literal or metaphorical.

Caitlin breaks him out of his completely unrealistic thoughts with a hefty huff, dumping the overfull bag of bath salts at the bathroom door, It's cozy pink floral theme stopping short at the doorjamb.

"Whatchu doin’? Brining him?" Joe asks with a chuckle. 

Caitlin stops frowning at that description long enough to explain, "Magnesium enriching salt bath; his stress levels have been over his average." Caitlin notes with a sympathetic pat, one he might appreciate if Joe wasn't already squinting at him like he was in a line-up.

Joe crosses his arms at that, leaning heavily against the doorjamb, “Really.” he intones, doing his worst impression of surprised.

He shrugs like he can't believe it, and at the way Joe seems like he's waiting for a bare bulb to descend from the ceiling for the impending interrogation, Barry latches his attention onto Cisco joining them outside the bathroom, bag of candles and what he can only assume is Dr. Caitlin prescribed 'no tears' baby shampoo.

"What's up, Cisco? I thought you were having a night in."

Cisco simply mumbles through his hoodie, "Bad vibes." but it's explanation enough. One of Cisco's vibe overload days, his body responding like a tuning fork set ringing at the slightest interactions- bumping into strangers, hearing tail-ends of conversations, touching - just about anything. 

It makes public transit a nightmare. …Or public anything. 

They've tried gloves, sensory deprivation tanks, meta-ability dampeners - nothing but time and a familiar environment can help, which he guesses is the West house until it settles.

It’s both heartwarming and selfishly frustrating that his house is a safe haven for such a large, and, _varied_ group of people. 

But back to bath time. 

He steps into the little bathroom, Cisco trailing in after him in a dissociative daze. It’s a very cozy atmosphere, he observes pleasantly. The assorted candles Caitlin’s lit flickering and fresh towels hung up while Caitlin runs his bath, still an odd concept to him, but if this is what loving care and a fun weekend looks like from Caitlin’s perspective, who is he to argue?

Cisco sits down on the stool by the closed window across from Caitlin, dipping her elbow into the bath water like she's prepping it for a baby before drying it off and giving him a pleased nod, "Ok, jump in."

"No bubbles?" He asks with some very thinly veiled skepticism, just curious enough to avoid sounding rude.

Caitlin sighs, “Well, they’re-”

“-‘ _Frivolous, unnecessary, unsafe_ -‘“ Cisco drones on, counting the ‘reasons’ on his fingers.

Caitlin cuts in at Barry’s confused, and honestly offended expression, “Excess use of unknown chemical compounds in combination with speedster abilities of matter acceleration and enhanced friction could be extremely unsafe-“ 

“IT’S BUBBLE BATH-No, no. I am not doing this again.” Cisco warns, rubbing his temples like he still has a headache from their last argument, which probably happened on the car ride over, and by the look Caitlin gives him it ended because Cisco threatened to vibe himself out of the moving car.

So, nothing new, "Whatever." Barry says by way of acceptance, though he did think this was about relaxing, and that usually includes bubble bath.

He starts undoing his belt before realizing Caitlin and Cisco are still watching him, pretty cluelessly. Ok, maybe Joe was right about needing some boundaries.

He huffs and stares between them both, it takes a second for such quick minds to take a hint, but they still roll their eyes and turn around after a few agonizing eternities of refusing to strip in front of his co-workers, which he _has_ done before. At super-human to normal speeds, depending on how tired he was.

Ok, Joe was very right. Per-usual.

He slips into the warm water, which is actually perfect, and pulls the shower curtain out far enough to be modest, but not modest enough to close it all the way and deprive Caitlin asking him her clip board of questions she’s just fished out of her purse.

But she stands up and puts the clipboard and a pen on the counter, “If you could just fill this out for me, I’ve got to make sure the pump is charged.”

“…’The pump’?” he repeats with extreme trepidation, but Cisco doesn’t bother informing him, preferring to scroll away on his phone, curled in on himself with his socks up on the toilet cover, and currently on the border of being swallowed by the hoodie zone.

Cisco’s making uncomfortable look… uncomfortable. Which makes two of them. 

He considers how awkward washing would be, even with the curtain three-quarters closed and Cisco’s agitated attention rapt on his news feeds. He’s going to bet singing, at any volume, is out of the question.

“Cisco!” Iris snaps from the doorway, seemingly confused and drawn in by Cisco’s presence in the bathroom, not Barry having a ‘relaxing’ bath with the door open, or at all, “Get in or get out, bath rules.” She states, slapping the doorway for tempo of how fast Cisco should be obeying these obviously universal rules.

"I'm updating him on very important meta-human news, Iris." Cisco lies in an exhausted version of his usual sass, putting his screen to his chest like he’s clutching his broken heart, while also with his other hand possibly subconsciously grabbing hold of the tubs edge so he can't be forcibly removed. Well, at least not easily.

Iris gives him a pitying smile, "You're on instagram." Iris points her very nicely manicured nails to the door, and the hallway beyond, properly illustrating how pleasant it would be to follow her instruction rather than be pinched by her acrylics all the way out the door.

"Sheesh." Cisco grumbles, but still stomps out in a quick and orderly fashion, with only minimal foot dragging.

Iris chuckles, goes to close the door behind her and give him some blessed privacy, but stops short, “No bubbles?"

The loud long-suffering sigh from down the hall and the look Barry gives her is enough to communicate that he does not, in fact, want to discuss the bubbles.

She shrugs, presses play on the CD player Cisco must have brought as his ‘relaxation’ contribution, and closes the door behind her, the absolute angel.

Now, with the door closed and nothing but the flickering scented candles and quiet, he can actually relax.

And realize he’s listening to what sounds like Enya’s ‘Only Time’ on repeat.

He sighs, pulls the curtain closed and leans back against the tub edge, warm water sloshing up to his ears. He can use this time to figure out his current Snart predicament, partly because he has to before he runs himself into the ground, possibly literally; Or Snart freezes him to the ground, also a high possibility.

But, for the second time in one night, Leonard Snart is climbing through his window.

At least this time he has the respect to stay mostly outside, head peeked in and bracketed by frilly curtains, and by the slight raise of his eyebrows he wasn't aware he was getting a full view when he first ducked in.

Barry doesn't even bother sitting up, or grabbing for the curtain, even attempting modesty, he's securely past caring, "Get what you wanted?" Barry asks flatly, past frustration as well and settled uncomfortably into acceptance that this is life now. 

"Debatable." Snart responds slowly, taking in the oddly scented candles and clinically staged ambience, and… Enya. “I, personally, would prefer bubbles."

"Me too." Barry replies dryly, estimating that the candlelight is just bright enough that Snart can see _much_ more than he would like to share, and he blames Caitlin, and the universe. "Be quiet when you use the bedroom window this time." He says in the direction of the ceiling, defeated, and resolutely avoiding witnessing Snart’s reaction to being invited in.

Snart hesitates for a moment on the windowsill, obviously evaluating his choice of dropping what must be an amazingly witty comeback or climbing in to start an argument about how he doesn’t need permission to break and enter, but he chooses the high-road - for once, “Yes, sir.” Snart agrees, ducking back out the window and closing it silently without even a billow of the lace trim curtains.

Barry now hates Enya. 

Snart seems determined to stay in Barry's house whether he likes it or not, and he's confused enough about that without having a say in it, anyway. He can't be bothered to make a big arch-nemesis Flash battle out of Snart being nosy, and apparently, reckless. But if he did, that would mean involving _team_ Flash, which would mean telling them why he's battling him in their front yard, which would mean telling them about what happened after their little 'intervention'. 

Which intervened in the opposite way everyone, mostly himself, thought it would.

Snart's romantically blackmailing him, but he's deciding he deserves it for wanting to make more blackmail. Wholesome, sweet, domestic blackmail.

Sure, his family's already let it be known that they'd accept Snart and his relationship with unarmed enthusiasm, but they don't know it's more than a phase, or a cheap thrill spent with youthful ignorance, or even a fling that's bound to break loose.

What he feels, what he thinks - no, _knows_ Snart feels as well, it's two people formed to make a lifelong fixation that he doesn't see breaking before death or deadly injury. To either him or Snart, or really anyone or anything within this stupid whirlwind of emotions and bad habits and worse puns. … And worse childhoods.

The puns _are_ pretty bad, though. But in an addicting kind of way.

So, he's accepted it, his emotional, very love-like investment in Leonard Snart. …but why can't he just act on it already? Well, ok, because that would mean accepting that he has to divide his tiny, perfect little life even more so. That he has to lie or tell everyone he's willing to put aside his morals, better judgement, and everyone else's trust and respect for one terribly perfectly imperfect man. That he's accepted it, happily, that same feeling of comforting logic he felt when he became the Flash. Destiny, fate, two opposing elements aligning perfectly to challenge one another, atom to atom. Just because. 

He could tell them all of it. Even the gross flowery stuff he knows he’ll get laughed at for and will probably get copy and pasted into the group chat for a month.

But, everything would change. ….He'd also have to move out.

He hates moving.

So much for a calming bath.

He scrubs, washes, and rinses at a decidedly rushed speed and slips out of the bath. He flashes the bathroom back to it's default, candles blown out and tub draining as he tightens the towel he's wrapped around his waist. 

Wait, the questionnaire.

He speeds through it, though he does have to spend more thought on the ‘sleep’ section, seeing as he doesn’t get much, at least not the restful kind, and tries very hard to answer everything else as honestly, as possible; even if he doesn’t feel at all comfortable having his sexual tendencies, pre- and post-metahuman changes in Caitlin’s pamphlet-making hands.

He can already see the piecharts and line graphs and venn diagrams being blown up in the Cortex, everything in helpful colour coding, large bolded stats that read ‘refractory period’ and ‘climax duration’ being underlined with Caitlin’s handy dandy laser pointer.

He uses every ounce of his self-control to very carefully put the clipboard down and refrain from lighting it on fire.

Just as he exits the bathroom, Caitlin reaches the top of the stairs, “Hey, Barry! Relaxing?” she asks benevolently.

“Oh, yeah, so - just super relaxing.” He lies, or rather selectively remembering the five-second period between Iris closing the door and Snart - being Snart.

Caitlin seems pleased to hear but hones in on the clipboard in his hands, which she makes a move to take, but he has a hard time letting go of, “Um, all the data you’re gathering this weekend- …it’s private, right?”

Caitlin gives him one of her soft sympathetic looks, “Of course, Barry. Doctor-patient confidentiality.” He breathes a sigh of relief, letting go of his grip on the clipboard, because at least Iris and Joe aren’t going to be at the mini meta conference Caitlin will likely be holding. Though he’s sure he’ll never be able to look Stein in the eyes again, he doesn’t really have a choice with Cisco. But it’s still a relief, until Caitlin stops him short, ”Was your door closed before?" Caitlin asks, frowning as she looks it up and down.

He attempts not to slip right out of his towel trying to get in front of it, "Uh," and for an agonizing second he thinks the only option might just be to drop his towel rather than gaslight her, but then logical sense catches up to him, "My window's open, drafts tend to close it." He explains, not lies, and Caitlin just nods and sticks the clipboard under her arm so she can get back to scribbling on her chart, possibly something about better draft control. 

24+ hours of that or more. Snart is going to kill him through stress alone.

He slips into his room as he hears her turn around and wander down the stairs, shutting and locking this door behind him. 

Snart is kneeling by the window, glancing up at Barry as he enters, but looks back to his bag rather respectfully abstaining from objectifying him in his towel. Which only makes Barry want him to look at him, which is silly, and frustrating, and could've easily been avoidable if Snart had just decided to not speed along Barry's way of coping with this crisis of a blooming relationship.

Which was not coping with it. 

He pretends Snart isn’t even in the room, flashing over to the dresser to pick out and flash on a pair of sweatpants and a soft t-shirt, possibly the nicer, more flattering fitting ones. Snart doesn’t know that, but Barry does, which still manages to make him feel strangely dirty because his friends and family are right downstairs.

There’s a knock at the door, Iris calling politely from behind it, “Barry?”

“One second!” He calls, hurriedly, turning around rapidly.

He points to the closet, frantically waving Snart towards it, but he gets up at a snails pace and walks about as fast as one too. But, after what feel like an eternity, Snart stops short of the closet door, “This is homophobic." He comments dryly and oh, so helpfully. He’s quite aware he’s grating on Barry’s patience as he leisurely leans back on the closet’s threshold. 

"Just please-“ Barry begs in a hurried whisper, looking anxiously back to the door as he _very gently_ shoves Snart by the chest into his closet, fitting him in between his excess of comfortable hoodies and button ups, "This room doesn't need anymore boyfriend drama."

Maybe, just maybe, he can close the door on Snart fast enough without breaking it, at least before Snart can register Barry’s Freudian slip of a sentence.

But Snart stops the door a crack before closing, a diabolical glint in his eyes peeking through, ”… _Boyfriend_?” he repeats, with the devilish satisfaction of an absolute villain.

Barry slams that conversation shut along with the closet door, deftly dodging Snart’s little fingers. …And the fact that he cares about his little fingers.

He takes a steadying breath, attempting to seem as cool - no, _calm_ and collected as usual before swinging his door open for Iris, “You got someone in there?” Iris asks, looking past him into his room casually. He sputters, unable to do anything but feel his eyebrows ascending away from his dumbly gaping mouth. 

But Iris just laughs, patting him on the arm, “I’m joking, Barry.” She motions him out into the hall, turning to hand him a set of sheets, “There’s nowhere to hide a guy in there, anyway.” 

“Oh, I bet I can find some.” He assures her under his breath, trying not to think about how everything in his closet is going to smell like leather, metal, and gimmick levels of minty freshness.

Iris doesn’t seem to notice his strange comment or stranger behaviour, probably because that’s normal for her, and probably because she has her scheming face on, “So, about that string of Rogue safe house raids…” Iris starts, putting on her completely innocent, non-reporter face as she leans closer, “What’s the real scoop?”

He sighs, wishing he could keep the ‘real scoop’ out of his closet, picking up the bath salts under one arm, “No comment.”

Iris huffs, following him at his shoulder, gesturing with the bag of candles and spare pillow as they descend the stairs, “Come on, Barry, I just wanna little bit of info.” She says, again attempting to make her intentions seem ever so innocent and not work driven at all, “You must be _swamped_ with work from it, I could tidy up your room for you?”

He stops short on the landing, Iris nearly slamming into him, “…Are you bribing an officer of the law?” he asks.

Iris purses her lips, raising an eyebrow in intrigue, ambivalent intrigue, of course. “Am I?”

“Attempting and failing, yes.” He confirms for her before descending the rest of the stairs, leaving her to huff disappoint in his wake.

“Caitlin, why are your things down here?” Iris asks, gesturing to the orderly mound of medical supplies and an overfull suitcase by the couch, but getting her answer from Caitlin’s expression faster than Caitlin can speak up, “Don’t be silly, Caitlin, you’re sleeping with me. Cisco’s sleeping down here.”

“And I can’t sleep with Barry?” Cisco pipes up with complete offence, sitting up from his prone position on the couch to look to Barry for support, “Bro-sleepover?”

“Uhh-“ He can’t hide Snart with Cisco drooling on his shoulder, but that just begs the question of how long Snart intends to stay, and where exactly, because it is _not_ going to be in Barry’s bed. “That would mess with my natural sleeping pattern.” He lies with an apologetic shrug towards Caitlin’s many sleep monitors, as if he had enough sleep to form a pattern other than unrelenting insomnia or consecutive, worsening nightmares.

“Of course.” Cisco sighs with the aid of lacklustre and a sadly dejected finger gun, curling back into his chair and hoodie as Iris leads Caitlin upstairs, lugging her things along heroically.

“C’mon, it’s better you get some sleep down here instead of soaking up my bad vibes.” He tries to reason, to both Cisco and himself, rubbing Cisco’s shoulder in a less than satisfactory way of reassuring the both of them that it won’t be a terrible night.

He spreads out the sheets Iris brought down across the couch, over fluffing the pillows in his unaddressed anxiety, which Cisco seems to be ignoring for both their benefit.

Joe walks into the living room, breaking the tense silence, “Where'd all the ice go, Barr? the least you can do is fill the trays back up." Joe says, brandishing the empty ice cube trays and a disappointed tone at him, knowing everyone else is a good enough house guest not to do such a thing, except… "What do you even need that much ice for anyway?"

They have another guest.

Which begs the question, “What _do_ I need that much ice for?" He asks, more to himself than Joe, who might've been looking beyond confused, but he's already turned to very discretely power walk across the hall and up the stairs two at a time, charging into his room and stopping to a halt in the doorway.

"Snart-" He starts, but it turns more into a gasp from the gut punched feeling he gets looking at Snart, laid against his headboard with his layered shirts pulled up to reveal a nasty cluster of dark, aged bruises, ice cubes in a plastic grocery bag in his hand being tenderly applied.

He’s at Snart’s elbow before he can think to take a step back, reasonable, logical thoughts catching up with his body, “You need a doctor, I can get Caitlin-“

Snart stops him, “Barry.” free hand up in an uncertain gesture of surrender and a request for Barry to stop and come back, neither of those easy for him to communicate- …but he does, and Barry listens. For now.

How didn’t he notice this before? Well, he has to reason Snart’s had four decades worth of faking fine, Barry just thought he’d see through it, at least when it mattered, “You've got a lot of internal bleeding.” He says, stating the obvious in a quiet tone, soft and sympathetic enough to make Snart roll his eyes at Barry crouching at the edge of his bed. 

"I prefer that kind, less messy." Snart states sardonically, shrugging stiffly while adjusting his ice. 

Now it’s Barry’s turn to roll his eyes, again, backing away to go get someone reasonable to help him, but Snart stops him again, “I didn’t come here for a nurse, Red, and I’ve had it much worse and handled it alone just fine, trust me.” Snart assures him through a tight breath of subdued pain, which makes the sentiment and the implication far from reassuring, but Snart cuts through his worrying thoughts with a controlled breath, "Stop biting your lip, kid. I can bleed enough for the both of us."

…But why would Snart break in, then, if not for medical help, and not for an extremely unlikely booty call, especially if he was trying to hide those bruises-

It hits him, pieces coming together to explain why Snart, the noncommittal stray cat of a person, would demand a weekend slumber party.

“ …You're homeless?” He says, not sure if he’s confirming it with dread or pride, but managing to express both sufficiently. He did aid in raiding all of Snart’s safe houses, he just wasn’t aware it meant _his_ house would become the backup.

"Technically, sure." Snart agrees reluctantly, likely just to ensure he doesn’t have to get up, “For now.” He defines, preserving his pride in the situation, despite currently using a plastic grocery bag of ice as sufficient medical treatment.

Snart spots Barry eyeing the makeshift icepack and comments casually, “Being _technically_ homeless does make it easier for the many people I've pissed off to get a hold of me." Attempting to explain while also casually hinting that Barry should feel even more guilty for his current state of health.

"-Specifically steeled-toed mobsters?” Barry assumes, resuming his crouched position to get a better look, which Snart unenthusiastically allows. 

“This time, yes." Snart supplies, watching to make sure Barry sticks to the museum manner of observation, “They were very happy that- oh, how did they put it… ‘some smartass found all my safe houses."

"You really should be more careful who you let into your secret lair." He notes, also noting that the bruising, how ever painful and widespread it is, isn’t deep or around any vulnerable organs. 

"Hmm, you're one to talk." Snart huffs, tenderly adjusting against Barry’s pillows behind his head, the unnecessary amount of them to compensate for how little Barry actually sleeps.

He avoids getting into a semantic fight about how Snart let himself in, instead taking the icepack from Snart and wrapping it into one of his shirts before giving it back, just to reduce the chill, "I've always preferred snow, but i'm used to working with the basics." Snart comments.

Nothing Snart says is reassuring, nor does it make how much Barry wants to reach out and touch him any better, 

"Barry." Snart says, snapping him out of his depressing thoughts to catch his gaze, ”I’ve survived this long with DIY healthcare, I’ll survive.” He reaffirms, pausing to dare to look down and adjust his hand just an inch from Barry’s to pick at a stray thread on the covers, “At least... if I have some place to stay."

What is Barry supposed to do? Shove him back out the window? 

So, he settles for broaching the question that’s been nipping at him all night, “…And you chose me?”

“Like you wouldn’t do the same under extreme duress?” Snart asks flatly, tilting his head to the side against the headboard with a gentle creak.

He snorts in way of reply as he shakes his head and looks away, just imagining coming to Snart for help. Again.

"C'mon," Snart says, stubborn in his selfish encouragement to get an answer or even reassurance that this act of reluctant vulnerability isn’t one-sided, “…Coldgun to your head."

Barry might have given it thought if Snart wasn’t so rapt for an answer, or rather the answer he wants as Snart stares him down. He skips right over considering it and decides to be difficult, it should be a two-way street, “I dunno, you don't look armed."

Snart huffs softly, “Like either of us need a gun to be dangerous."

Barry _has_ to stop finding threatening innuendo attractive, but it’s very difficult when it’s coming from someone who looks like Snart, and acts like Snart, and challenges him, constantly; that he’s still not on a first name basis with. Which of course is a steep step in a dangerous, personal direction that seems like a gateway habit to even more intimate, dangerously personal, small defeats.

What’s next? Calling him Leo? Lenny? Pookie? Leaving the window unlocked and the many other pillows fluffed, mini-marshmellows always in stock and extra ice made?

Of course not. …Not yet, at least.

The staring contest stretches on impossibly between them, and whatever the prize of the contest is, he feels like Snart’s going to win. Before he can make multiple romantic mistakes in lieu of his obvious defeat, he stands up out of the kneeling position he’d been in before, which he now has the mental capacity to realize was incredibly uncomfortable, and goes back to what he was _attempting_ to do before Snart ruined his already perfectly stressful evening.

He goes about sorting through the laundry on the floor, and the many other useful surfaces for dropping things he doesn’t have time to think about, which excludes the actual laundry hamper and garbage bin, naturally. He manages to scoop up all his loose papers without causing them to fly about and creating a paper cut tornado. Not tonight.

All the while ignoring Snart’s rapt attention on his every action, or rather, his many small and mundane, domestic actions that shouldn’t actually be so interesting. But Snart still seems interested in Barry stuffing his laundry hamper full and rediscovering his floor.

He finishes up, the room surprisingly tidy for how little time and effort it took to clean up weeks of avoided mess. 

…Except for the little pile by the window. He picks up Snart’s duffle, about the weight of what he can guess is the coldgun, it’s tools, and a few unidentifiable pounds, but before he can investigate, Snart clears his throat almost politely. He obliges Snart’s privacy, for now. He stuffs the ‘private’ bag under the bed on the window side that Snart’s on, tucking it into the disguised evidence box he used to keep his parent’s case files in.

 _Now_ his room is clean. He stands up, looking to Snart, but he's reclined against _his_ pillows, pulling the turned-down covers out from under his feet and up to his chest with a very self-satisfied hum as he settles deep into the mattress.

"What are you doing?" Barry dares to ask, feeling his traitorous romantic butterflies act up, so he crosses his arms to keep his grossly heart-melting feelings inside his very bitter, very stubborn exterior.

Snart lifts one eyelid open a crack to respond in a thick voice, "Sleeping; a necessary evil." like human needs are such a hassle. But Barry supposes if Snart's sleep is as disturbed and nightmare ridden as his own, they both know it's worse than a hassle.

Which just brings his own night-terrors to this situation, like how Snart will handle Barry clutching onto him for dear life in the middle of night, or at least three times before he gives up on sleep per usual and spends the rest of the twilight hours with the lights on.

He could tell Snart to sleep on the floor, but he'd probably complain about his poor back. Either way, he might as well bite the bullet and let Snart find out for himself that trauma-induced insomnia tends to break most of Barry’s relationships, except for the ones that learned to get noise-proof earplugs and sleep masks.

…And not share his bed. Or room.

He should just get over it, ruin the little tenuous thing they’ve fostered with the reality of the situation. That he’s- a mess, and Snart’s a morally grey adrenaline junkie with too much free time. He’s been worrying himself sick over how they’ll make it work, how to accept his emotions dissonance from his morals, but he should of just accepted it and got on with the eventual reality that when they’re not challenging eachother- they just don’t work.

He doesn’t want it to be true, doesn’t want this honeymoon period to be done, or even started when he wasn’t ready. He wants things to work out, to find a way like everything else. He wants these thoughts to just be the pessimistic side of himself that’s been disappointed too many times. 

Either way …It’s bed time.

He let’s Snart keep the side of the bed he’s claimed for himself, it’s closer to the window anyway, good to leave him an escape route for the eventual, well, escape. He climbs in on the other side of Snart, acting like he doesn’t notice the way Snart tenses, whether it’s to guard his wounds, or himself, or just instinct, he takes note and settles in gently, keeping ample room between them.

He lays there for a minute, still unable to wrap his head around how he’s lying in bed with the man who’s been responsible for his most consistent near-death experiences. But he is, so like most things he hasn’t understood in his life he just accepts it until he _can_. 

…He’s still not over nearly drowning in the river. Even if Snart _did_ personally give him CPR to make up for it.

“Barry.” Snart whispers, almost like he can hear Barry’s bitter internal huffing about smelling like dead fish for a week and still fighting crime _with_ a lingering concussion, “…the light.”

Oh, right. Sleeping. Together. In the dark. Alone.

…Together.

He takes some ‘big boy breaths’ as Cisco started calling them after Joe said it _once_ , and reaches for the light. And in a flick, everything’s dark. …And calm, and nice.

He could just close his eyes, but his thoughts keep nagging, and being able to feel the unfamiliar heat and weight of another person next to him doesn’t help. He starts tapping his fingers over his chest, rolling his ankles and wiggling his toes while he tries to wade through all the ideas, and questions, and how Snart, of all people, can just climb into his bed and seem… fine. 

He hears Snart huff annoyance in the dark, aware of Barry’s fiddling and obviously waiting for the question.

"You don't think there's anything complicated about-“ he struggles for a second, choking just a little on calling them an 'us', so he decides to save them both from having to state it and settles instead for gesturing vaguely to the ceiling they're both staring at, "this?"

"Nope," Snart shrugs, rolling his face towards Barry on his pillow, "I'm your villain." He explains in a somewhat fond, yet condescending whisper, but in the dark with nothing but a slant of cool light from the street along his jaw, catching in the shine of his attentive eyes, he adds in a warm hush like he's sharing a very obvious secret, "You're my hero."

"Simple." He wants to lean in, wants to give in to his unfortunately tender heart and achingly empty arms, but that would mean letting go of his justified resentment of this whole situation. He wants a semi-normal relationship, at least in it's escalation, but he also wants Leonard Snart in all his atypical splendor. Maybe he can have both, and maybe, for now, he won't settle for less. 

“Goodnight.” Barry says, rolling over and away from Snart, and feeling rather pleasantly vindicated at the disappointed sigh behind him at being thwarted in his romantic schemes.

It was a good night, after all.

\---------

**Author's Note:**

> The description stating that 'Life is a dick' is from my personal experience.
> 
> Feel free to comment with your favorite part or guess the details of the second half of the chapter, and/or come and visit my [tumblr](gracecursed.tumblr.com) for possible updates!


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